But It Wasn't Her Car
by raisemegfromperdition
Summary: After it's all over - all the fighting, all the death - someone has to tell the story. Someone has to make sure that they're remembered. How I imagine the series ending.


**In order for there to be a story, there has to be someone to tell it.**

The Impala rumbled to a stop as Charlie killed the engine on it. She sat for a moment in the sudden silence, running her hand over the steering wheel. She knew she'd never call it her car, not really — it was Dean's car, or Dean and Sam's car, and she was just taking care of it. Sighing, she opened the door, stepped out onto the road, and locked the door behind her as she looked up at the house. It was a little clapboard structure, a simple family house in the middle of suburbia. She smiled to herself as she remembered Sam telling her about the electromagnet that Dean had left behind in its garage.

Charlie trudged up the path that led to the front door, and swallowed hard before she knocked. She didn't want to do this. She really, really didn't.

But it had to be done.

She only had to wait a few moments after knocking before a short man with closely-cropped curly black hair opened the door. He had the distinct air of a man trying to hold down his excitement. "Ms. Bradbury?"

"Yeah — yes," Charlie cleared her throat before reaching out her hand to shake. "Are you Ed or Harry?"

"I'm Harry." He took her hand and pumped it up and down. "I'm so glad you called. Please, come in."

"Thanks."

If Harry was chattering at her as he led her through the house, she didn't hear it. She was steeling herself to live it all again: the war, the blood, the sight of Dean Winchester, battered and bloody, lying on the floor next to his brother's broken body, whispering "G'night, Sammy," as the light faded from Sam's eyes. Once Dean had left too, following after his brother for what was probably the first time, the tears in Charlie's eyes had spilled over, and she had knelt between them and used her fingertips to gently close their eyes.

She startled back to the present when Harry led her down the stairs to a finished basement, and she almost smiled at the sign reading "Ghostfacers: The Eagle's Nest" over the archway into the large room. A second man, this one a ginger with glasses, glanced up and then scrambled to his feet upon seeing her and Harry.

"Ed," said Harry proudly, "this is Charlie Bradbury."

"Hi." Charlie endured her hand being gripped again before saying, "Thank you so much for letting me come here."

"Of course — of course!" Ed stammered. "Can we get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Wine?"

Charlie shook her head jerkily. She just wanted to get this over with. She owed it to the boys, but she knew that at the end of it, all she would want to do was go home, crawl into bed, and cry for a year. "I'd rather we just started."

"Sure!" Harry led her over to an ostentatious overstuffed armchair, and she dropped her bag and sat down in it, watching Ed as he fumbled with the camcorder on the tripod a few feet away. "So we'll just — we'll just let it record, then?"

"Yes, please." Charlie smoothed her hair from her face as Harry dragged a second stool over to where Ed was sitting behind the camera. "Just tell me when."

Ed pressed a sequence of buttons. "I think… there," he muttered triumphantly. "Got it." He and Harry both looked up at Charlie, their eyes bright with interest. "Okay, Ms. Bradbury, we're recording. Whenever you're ready."

Charlie nodded and tried to ignore the two of them, how their attention was utterly fixated on her, and looked up and between them. Her eyes found a black-and-white headshot of William Shatner, and memories of a dozen DVD marathons between battles, and of Sam loudly mocking Dean for his insistence on eating black licorice, and Castiel trying to figure out whether or not he liked popcorn, and Kevin having fun despite himself, all came flooding back to her. Despite the pit she could feel churning up her stomach, a laugh almost bubbled up.

Still not looking at the camera, she began. "My name is Charlie Bradbury. I was lucky enough to be counted as family by Sam and Dean Winchester." She choked on the last syllable and stared down at her lap, at her fingers twisting together. _Deep breaths_, she told herself. _People need to know this. This needs to be remembered_. She straightened her spine and looked directly into the camera lens.

"And this is the story of how they died."


End file.
